


Strength and Weakness

by daisybrien



Category: Escape from Furnace - Alexander Gordon Smith
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, hand holding, lockdown - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-12-07 13:12:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11624241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisybrien/pseuds/daisybrien
Summary: Rebellion against the prison's regime is as easy - and as hard - as taking another's hand.





	Strength and Weakness

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Can I hold your hand?

His feet dangle in the open air, watching the inmates the size of black-and-white beetles mill around against the yellow lined gray. Alex sits stories above the cement graveyard of the yard below, the static buzz of conversation punctuated by the common yell or jeer lulling him into daydream as he looks down over the levels of Gen pop sprawled below him. From his perch on the ledge of their cell landing, in the unusually calm bustle, he can almost pretend he’s somewhere else, anywhere else but here; on a cold park bench, the air fresh in his lungs, the top railing of the fence against his forehead the cool sprinkle of summer London rain dusting over him-

He’s jolted out of his reverie by a hand on his back, threatening to push him forward. He yelps, scrambling to right himself, even as the hand grips tight on his overalls to keep him from slipping through the narrow spaces of the landing’s border. Once his stomach finds it restful place back in his gut rather than his throat, his heart still thrumming like a broken engine, he remembers where he is, the grim reality and the prison walls threatening to crash down around him. He turns, catching a glimpse of white teeth flashing behind a beautiful smile, and with a rare sigh of relief, remembers where he is. 

Donovan coughs out a laugh, as if the act were foreign to him, like he were learning it for the first time. “Saved your life.”

“Christ,” Alex sputters. He scoots farther back on the landing, less keen to let his legs hang so freely anymore. “I almost crapped myself.”

“With the look on your face? I was sure you did.” 

Alex shoves him with a firm but gentle hand, enough force to bother but not enough to make the other boy lose his balance. Donovan only laughs harder, his retaliating, flailing arms ineffective as he leans away to defend himself. 

“Don’t do that, you asshole!” Alex says, and his cheeks hurt from smiling so hard, for the first time in so long. “You freaking asshole!”

“You worship this asshole!” Donovan replies. They settle down, the laughter fizzling out of their throats like soda going flat, the taste of it still sweet on their tongues. Their tackling had brought them closer together, the energy of their high spirits buzzing between them like electricity. 

“Can’t believe I owe my life to an asshole,” Alex says. He leans back, watching the muscles work in Donovan’s jaw as he grins to himself, looking into the dark, spiralling abyss above them.

His hand touches something warm and soft, a flaw in the uniformity of the level platform. He jumps, looking towards it only after Donovan jumps with him and he realizes that he had put his hand on his. 

They both grow tall, rigid as they sit up. Alex mutters an apology as he pulls his hand away, looking back down at the crowds shifting below. There’s a lump in his throat as he traces his fingers along the ledge, cold and lifeless; it had been so long since he touched another person, felt the warmth of another’s embrace. The absolute tenderness of the simple brush of skin was enough to make him cry, and as much as he missed it, wanting to reach back for his hand, it didn’t belong here among metal bars and horrors in masks and suits. To differ from that system meant death, it almost meant weakness.

“Sorry,” he breathes, low enough he’s sure Donovan can’t hear his lie. 

“It’s-” Donovan starts on his own apology, stopping short, voice dying in his throat.

He sets his hand down by Alex’s, only inches apart. A temptation. An invitation.

Alex takes it ever so slowly. He feels stupid, like one of a pair of school crushes trying to touch pinkies at a movie. But he needs to test the waters, needs to see if Donovan was willing to break down his walls for him.

Each movement a question. _Can I?_. Each inch Donovan helps close the gap an answer, _yes, I want to hold your hand, this is okay, we’re okay,_ until both their hands are clasped together, the two of them joined in tenuous connection. Alex’s heart continues to stutter, thrilled to experience so much the prison had tried to tear from his grasp. 

They don’t look at each other, the two still shocked at their own display; fingers intertwined, gripping tight. But when Donovan squeezes his hand and the electric hum between them runs through their arms like a current, and his chest starts to unwind from the tight knot of heartbreak it had been for months, Alex feels protected and rebellious, acting against the solitude and hopelessness he would not let the prison force on him any longer.

He squeezes Donovan’s hand back, and in it Alex knows it means solidarity, it means love, and it meant strength above and beyond the power of whatever came at him next.


End file.
